Gideon Smith and the Brass Dragon (14 page)

It was good business to wait; if she was going to return to London anyway then she might as well stay put for a few days and earn money for piloting the return trip as well. That was what she told herself, at any rate. But she wasn't only Rowena Fanshawe, proprietor and sole employee of Fanshawe Aeronautical Endeavors, established 1883, Highgate Aerodrome, London. She was also Rowena Fanshawe, holder of the Conspicuous Gallantry Medal, the adventuress who had played her part in saving Queen Victoria from the deluded machinations of Dr. John Reed.

And, goddammit, she cared about Gideon Smith, cared enough to worry that he was off on some foolish mission in the most hostile territory in America. A few weeks ago he'd been a wet-behind-the-ears fisherman. Now he was expected to be the Hero of the Empire.

She bit into her apple in frustration, chewing thoughtfully as New Yorkers escaped from the rising temperature of the smog-bound city to the shadowy oasis of the Albert Gardens. The space had been modeled on Hyde Park, with its own version of the Serpentine glittering at its center. Rowena watched nannies pushing baby carriages, sneaking looks at her from beneath their bonnets; she saw office clerks in brown derbies and the waxed mustaches the Manhattanites so loved, casting surreptitious glances at her; a crowd of Bowery boys in laceless boots and patched trousers climbed over each other like puppies, whistling at her and running away, laughing. Two gentlemen doffed their tall stovepipe hats at her, beating out tattoos on the path with their gold-tipped canes. New York had burst out of the expectations laid upon it as a mere colony of Britain long ago; it was as if the rebel spirit had not been crushed by the redcoats but merely molded into the haughty self-confidence that earned New Yorkers their unfathomable reputation among London's chattering classes. It seemed to Rowena that peering out beneath every bonnet, stovepipe, and derby was a look that said,
All right, you won. We're British. But don't expect us to be like any British you've ever seen before.…

Of course, Rowena was hardly like any British woman the New Yorkers had ever seen or heard of, either. Her flying trousers were scandalously close-fitting, her hair cropped defiantly short. She had opened two buttons on her crisp white cotton shirt against the heat; young Manhattan women might show more ankle than their counterparts in Mayfair, but they were still a conservative lot. Conservative, that was, outside the negro clubs in Harlem, where former slaves freed long ago danced to the beat of drum music throughout the night; or the pubs in the Bronx, where the Irish sipped porter and played fiddles; or the trattorias on Mulberry Street, where Roman passions were played out after dark. It was the white, British American women who were laced up tight as any Londoner Rowena had ever seen. As another brace of nannies scowled at her she leaned forward and recklessly unfastened another button on her shirt, smiling at them.

Rowena cast another glance at her distant 'stat. She hated earthbound mores and despised the judgment others held her in, the shackles and bounds society felt should be placed upon her. Only in the sky, above the smog, above the clouds, did Rowena feel really, truly free. She was tempted, there and then, to flee. But she held herself back. She had made a promise that she would wait awhile, in case Gideon needed her. But that didn't mean she had to hang around the stuffy Governor's Residence. If she couldn't fly, she could do the next best thing.

She could go to Aubrey's Bar & Grill.

*   *   *

Rowena walked into Aubrey's just as darkness was falling; she had agreed to an early dinner with Lyle then told him she was going to see the sights. Which she was; there were few sights more worth seeing than the ones at Aubrey's after dark.

It was, to give it its full name, the Union Hall of the New York Chapter of the Esteemed Brethren of International Airshipmen, located in a squat building among the sheds and hangars of the North Beach Aerodrome. The members' bar was in the hands of one Aubrey Flanagan, a Cork man who, in '45, had built his own airship and carried families devastated by the potato blight over to new lives in America. After three years of ferrying his countrymen to New York, Aubrey had settled in Manhattan and acquired the license to run the bar in the Union Hall, and after that everyone just called it Aubrey's Bar & Grill. Aubrey was, in his own words, “built like a brick shithouse, with hair like a bog-brush,” and he could generally be found behind his bar, serving up porter and rum and supervising a constant flow of sausages from the kitchens. Every 'stat pilot worth the name found their way to Aubrey's sooner or later, and Rowena was no exception. Pushing open the double doors to the warmth, shrill conversation, and frantic accordion music within, she felt like she was coming home.

Life in the air was not subject to the same rules as that on the ground, but female 'stat pilots were still enough of a novelty for all eyes to turn toward Rowena as she walked across the crowded hall. Those who she knew nodded, waved, or raised an eyebrow in greeting. Those she didn't laid the weight of their appreciative gaze upon her, until a neighbor or friend nudged and whispered, “That's Rowena Fanshawe.”

She changed course on her way to the bar and stepped into the cool, shadowy chapel. 'Stat pilots weren't known for being religious, as such; more spiritual. She'd known airshipmen to hang around their necks crosses and Stars of David and everything in between, every totem or symbol they picked up on their journeys to the far corners of the Earth. They relied on their wits and their expertise, 'stat pilots, but there was nothing wrong with hedging your bets. The chapel, lit by church candles on tall metal stands, was dominated by a long corkboard on one wall, onto which were pinned grainy photographs of lost Brethren or, where there were no photographs available, sketches or even just scrawled names. A yellowed roll of paper above the corkboard was inscribed in flowing script,
MY SOUL IS IN THE SKY
. How many pilots would recognize it, as Rowena did, from Shakespeare's
A Midsummer Night's Dream
she neither knew nor cared. It was written across the roll call of the lost in every chapel in every Union Hall across the Empire, and on every corkboard was the photograph, or sketch, or handwritten name that always drew her.

Charles Collier. She found him, near the middle of the board, a ragged-edged photograph of a man with sandy hair, his mustache waxed proud, the line of his mouth slightly upturned at the corners, echoing the crease lines at the corners of his eyes that betrayed good humor. He wore a pair of brass goggles on his head, the shearling collar of his leather jacket pulled up. Rowena stroked the photograph, then took up a flat votive candle from the wicker basket beneath the corkboard and borrowed a flame from the nearest lit candle. She placed it in the rack below the corkboard and stayed silent, head bowed, in mute contemplation for a moment.

Rowena raised her head and looked at the photograph of Charles Collier once more. It was time for a drink.

*   *   *

Aubrey leaned across the bar and threw his huge arms around Rowena, scattering empty glasses and full ashtrays.

“Rowena Fanshawe!” he exclaimed. “By the bulging sac of Jean-Pierre Blanchard, what sends you flying our way?”

Rowena extricated herself from his bearlike hug. “Bit of business, Aubrey. How are you?”

“As good as the Lord and as fit as the devil.” He laughed then paused. “Or is it the other way around? Anyhow, let me get you a drink. Porter?”

Rowena shook her head. “Rum. As usual.”

He roared again. “I'll get you on some fine Irish porter one of these days, Rowena Fanshawe. Put hairs on your chest!”

“That's what I'm afraid of,” she said, accepting the generous measure of dark, spiced rum that Aubrey poured for her. She reached into her satchel for her wallet but he waved his meaty fist at her.

“Your money's no good here tonight, Rowena. Tonight you drink on Aubrey Flanagan.” He picked up a glass of his own and banged on the bar for silence. “Shut it, you balloon-rats! We have a proper heroine in the house! Raise your glasses to Rowena Fanshawe.”

There was a chorus of cheers that Rowena waved away. She drained the glass and Aubrey poured another. He said, “We all read about what happened, that Battle of London. You did mighty fine there, Rowena. Mighty fine indeed. We're awful proud of you.”

“How's Fanny?” asked Rowena.

“Fit as a fiddle! She's in the back, cooking up her sausages. They're a fine body of men, these Brethren, but greedy! You never saw the like. They'll eat 'til sausages come out of their arses. They're like dogs. Don't know when to stop.”

Rowena spent an easy hour catching up with Brethren gossip, until Aubrey had to take up his shillelagh from the shelf behind him and go and sort out a fight in the far corner that was threatening to turn into a brawl. She rose unsteadily from her stool—damn Aubrey's generous measures—and weaved through the throng toward the Union Hall proper, where one or two airshipmen browsed the contracts that had been pinned to the walls. This was where most 'stat pilots picked up their jobs when they were at loose ends, and Rowena scrutinized the nearest. She was itching to get back in the air, even if it was just a short cargo hop to Boston.

Behind the desk was the hirer, a thin man in a suit that had seen better days. She saw him hail the two men who were in the Union Hall ahead of her, and an urgent, low conversation took place. The two men shook their heads and walked away. Intrigued, Rowena wandered over.

“Any jobs going?”

The hirer looked her up and down. “You Brethren?”

The rum had emboldened her. She jabbed her thumb at her chest. “I'm Rowena Fanshawe.”

The hirer clicked his tongue. “I do have a job, but it's not for you.”

She placed her hands on the table and leaned forward. “Any job is for me.”

“It's for a big 'stat. What you flying?”

“Tripler, out of the Gefa-Flug factory in Aachen. She's called the
Skylady III
. Used to fly under the name the
Yellow Rose
.”

The hirer sat back and whistled. “Louis Cockayne's 'stat? And how did you get your hands on that? I'd say you must have won it off him, but Louis Cockayne doesn't lose at cards.”

Rowena smiled. “No, but sometimes he bites off more than he can chew.”

The hirer rubbed his chin. “We-e-ell … you could handle the cargo, certainly. But it's the destination, Miss Fanshawe. It's south of the Wall.”

Rowena raised an eyebrow, but didn't react further. “The Mason-Dixon Wall?”

“That's the only Wall we talk about 'round here. Specifically … San Antonio.”

“Steamtown?” said Rowena. “Who's doing business with Steamtown? And what's the cargo?”

“The contractor is classified,” said the hirer. “And the cargo is classified as well. All you got to know is that you load up here at dawn, get down to Steamtown, and stay the hell in your 'stat while they unload. There'll be a cargo to bring back, as well. The contract states that your hold has to be locked throughout and you don't even think about looking in there.” He rubbed his chin again. “I don't know … a woman like you in Steamtown…”

“I can look after myself,” said Rowena. She was getting tired of having to point that out. “Besides…”

He shrugged. “Besides, as a chartered 'stat pilot and paid-up member of the Esteemed Brethren of International Airshipmen, even those barbarians would know better than to try any funny business. You stay put on your bridge and keep a gun to hand, and you won't come to any harm.”

“So the contract's mine?”

The hirer tapped his chin then held out two manila envelopes. “This here's your manifest. It won't tell you anything about the cargo, but it will tell you what you do when you get to Steamtown.” He held the other out but pulled it back as Rowena reached for it. “This here's classified documents, to be handed over at Steamtown air ground. They're secured with the Brethren seal, and if that's broken … well, I can't guarantee anything when you get to Steamtown.”

“All very mysterious,” muttered Rowena, taking both envelopes. “But legal?”

The hirer shrugged. “It came through formal channels, but with the rules I just told you.”

“It could be anything,” said Rowena.

“You know the Brethren code,” said the hirer. “
Periculo tuo
and all that.”

Periculo tuo.
At your own risk. The Brethren would fix you up with work, lend you money if you needed it, get you out of somewhere fast if you were in trouble. But you were responsible for the jobs you took on. If a cargo turned out to be unsavory or worse … then you knew the risks.

The hirer raised an eyebrow. “You still want it?”

Whatever was in there, she had to take the job if she wanted to go down to Steamtown. It went against the grain to take on a cargo without knowing what it was, but … she nodded.

“You got it. Be here with your 'stat at dawn. And fair winds, Miss Fanshawe. Fair winds.”

*   *   *

Rowena told Governor Lyle that she was going away for a few days, to “see friends.” Which, she hoped, would prove true. He looked doubtful, though.

“You're not thinking of heading down to Texas, Miss Fanshawe? Remember what we said, this has to be a covert operation.…”

“I don't go anywhere I'm not paid to,” said Rowena sweetly.

She took to her bed early and was awake and alert in the small hours, accepting breakfast from the kitchen and finally feeling her earthbound anxieties fall away as she nosed the
Skylady III
into the gradually lightening sky and toward North Beach Aerodrome.

Never in the trading history of Fanshawe Aeronautical Endeavors had Rowena taken a cargo on board without knowing its provenance, not since she started the business with the
Skylady I,
a Thompson Flashman blimp that had lifting power for only two passengers and a long hundredweight of cargo. But as the instructions stated, she sat on the bridge of the 'stat staring grimly ahead at the pale approach of dawn while representatives of the mysterious contract holder loaded up the cargo bay from the ground. Even more galling, she had to allow them access to the gondola—without even seeing them!—so they could chain up the interior door down to the cargo bay. Eventually, a groundsman from the Aerodrome climbed up the rope ladder to tell her they were done.